


The Way That Your Lights Come On

by fingalsanteater



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, Hand Jobs, Incest, Jealousy, M/M, Post-Canon, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 03:40:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11176251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fingalsanteater/pseuds/fingalsanteater
Summary: Ford's jealous and Stan's had enough.





	The Way That Your Lights Come On

Ford has to admit, even though he is loath to do so, that Stan can be charming. Stan with a few shots of whiskey in him is somehow, remarkably, even more charming. 

Where Ford becomes, as Stan would put it, "a stick in the mud with a stick up his ass" the more he drinks, Stan becomes the life of the party, especially if he starts out drinking in a good mood. 

Which is why Ford is brooding in the darkest corner of this fishing village pub, nursing his whiskey alone, while Stan lights up the bar with tales of punching a squid square in the eye. 

The bar maid and the only three female patrons (one young enough to be Stan's daughter if he had children) hang on his every word, and, literally, hang on him. Their hands are on his biceps, which he flexes, showing off the hard muscle under his sweater.  Their hands are in his hair, which they get to by yanking off his cap while he laughs and leans into their touch. Their hands are on his face, cupping his jaw while he kisses them one after the other, even the barmaid who leans over the counter for a peck, showing off her ample cleavage. 

Even the men's hands are on him, cajoling him while slapping him on the back and clapping him on the shoulder. They buy him another drink and one woman, the one with soft blond hair and ample, wide hips, sits in Stan's lap, where he pushes her hair aside to kiss her neck. 

Ford swallows the rest of his whiskey in one go, relishing the burn down his esophagus. It distracts him just briefly from the sickening, cold, gut churning burn in his belly, and the pulsing, sweet burn in his groin. 

He thinks he should get up and sneak off to the bathroom, tear his eyes away from Stan and his "babes," as he'd call them. Instead he watches, and clenches his hand to his thigh under the table. 

A half-empty bottle of whiskey sits on the sticky table in front of him, but he doesn't refill his glass. He's too drunk and too tempted to slide his hand over his thigh to palm his half-hard cock through his pants. No one would notice, with the shadows concealing him and all eyes on Stan regardless. 

Instead he crosses his arms tightly over his chest settles back in the chair, watching Stan wear another version of his Mr. Mystery persona, this one regaling a new set of simpletons with tales of adventure on the high seas. He wears it well, but Stan's been wearing a series of masks his whole life, Matryoshka-like and just as elaborately rendered. 

He’s seen to the very center of him only once, when he'd fallen to his knees, both vulnerable and strong, and Ford turned the dial on the Memory Gun to read "Stanley Pines."  Stan was a hero underneath all those bad decisions and criminal tendencies; underneath the lies and bluster he's someone to be admired, someone who Ford can love. And, it's not that Ford didn't love him before, because he always has even when he didn't want to, even when he was scratching out doodles of the first Stan o' War in his journal and trying not to wonder where his brother was and what he was doing. But, it's difficult for Ford to love him. 

He loves him too much.

In his darkest moments, like now, he misses the soft, wide-eyed version of his brother, seeing Ford for the first time, easily accepting his affection without the lifetime of anger and bitterness a seemingly insurmountable wall between them. He thinks he could have kissed him then and Stan would have let him, maybe even kissed him back. He wavers between imagining he would have if the kids hadn't been there, and knowing he wouldn't have. 

Stan glances over his shoulder at Ford, furrows his brow in irritation at the glower being thrown in his direction. He kisses the cheek of woman warming his lap and easily lifts her, setting her on her feet, hands on her hips angling her toward a free bar stool where she takes a seat. He hikes his thumb towards Ford, but Ford can't make out what he's saying to the patrons who are now glancing over at him like he's ruined their party just by existing. He's too old to feel like he's a kid again, friendless and butting in where he's unwanted, desperate for someone to like him; a decades old bitterness floods him regardless. 

Using the table as support, Stan pushes himself up and staggers drunkenly towards Ford. His steps become steadier the closer he gets, like his intoxication is just another mask he wears. He yanks out the chair across from Ford and slides down into it. Ford says nothing, arms still crossed tight across his chest. 

"I can feel you burning a hole in the back of my head," Stan says, slurring less than he should be based on the way he'd been acting. He leans forward, elbows on the table and says lowly, "What's your damn problem?"

"Nothing," Ford lies, eyes drawn to Stan's reddish lips, slightly swollen and slick from kissing. 

"Aw, don't give me that bullshit, Ford. I know you're a terrible drinking buddy, but you usually ain't this bad. You've been sulking back here all night when there's no reason too." He reaches across the table and gently slaps Ford on the arm. "Live it up, Sixer. We survived another one-eyed monster thanks to my right hook and your quick thinking."

Ford cringes at the allusion to Bill, but the memory seems not to phase Stan who follows up with, "And Marnie over there has been asking about you."

"What?" Ford asks, surprised. 

"Yeah." He twists in his chair and motions toward barmaid who shyly waves at them. He turns back to Ford with a grin and says, "Don't know why. I told her you were a real pain in the ass, but she still grilled me about my 'handsome twin brother.' Didn’t tell her anything - figured you should to do your own talking.”  

He pauses and shrugs his should minutely, swallowing heavily. “You should, you know. You should go talk to her," he says, leaning back in his chair, mirroring Ford with his arms crossed over his chest, an unreadable expression on his face.

She's pretty, dark hair shot with gray pulled messily up onto her head, eyes crinkling with laugh lines when she smiles, which was often. 

She's pretty, but all Ford can see is Stanley in front of him - not just the tantalizing way his sweater stretches across his thick chest or and stomach, or his tousled hair and flushed face that make it look like he's just been thoroughly fucked, but it's also the careless grin he shoots Ford even when Ford is being difficult, it's the light in his eyes when he looks at him, like Ford is the flame flickering within Stan himself.  

Again, Ford feels like a kid, seventeen and trying to muster his confidence. He's sure he'll get a drink thrown in his face if he ever breaks down and confesses his sins. Or, knowing Stanley, a fist in his face. Ford thinks he'd deserve whatever Stanley did to him, but it might be worth it, might feel like absolution. 

Stan's eyeing him, completely and thankfully unaware of Ford's inner turmoil. 

"Eh? Come on, Sixer. It's not like you need another shot of liquid courage." He sloshes around the remaining whiskey in the bottle and refills Ford's glass anyway. The pour is sloppy and some whiskey spills onto Stan's fingers. 

He ponders the liquid, wet on his hand, dripping off his fingertips onto the table, for a moment before bringing his hand to his mouth, tongue darting out to lick away the errant whiskey. 

Ford burns at the sight, blood rushing straight to his cock, still semi-hard. He's both disgusted at himself and secretly, sickeningly thrilled by the fact that Stan is sitting there clueless just across the table while Ford's cock is hard for him.  

"I think I'd rather go back to the boat and sleep," Ford says with what he hopes is a finality that will belay any brotherly ribbing. He can't be here anymore, watching Stan put his hands on someone else, pretending to be interested in his attempts at matchmaking. He just wants to crawl into his bunk and take himself in hand, moan Stan's name as loud as he wants and indulge in his fantasies that it's Stan's hand on him (difficult with his six fingers). 

Stan frowns. He opens his mouth. Closes it again without saying a word. 

"Goodnight, Stanley," Ford supplies. He pulls his coat around him before standing, turning away from Stan as he does, concealing his still swollen cock. 

"Ford, wait," Stan says, grabbing Ford's forearm as he moves past him towards the door. "Stay. Don't go, damn it." He looks up at Ford with pleading eyes. He's desperate, but not like Ford is. 

"I'll see you back on the boat later tonight," Ford says. He digs the knife a little deeper. "Unless you find something else to do until sunrise." His eyes flick to the bar where Stan's "babes" are waiting. Ford's not exactly sure who he was trying to cut with that, because it feels more like his hand slipped and he's the one bleeding. 

"You're an asshole, you know that?" Stan says, tightening his grip on Ford's arm. 

Ford pulls away from his grasp and walks out. 

The cold, damp air hits him hard, piercing him like needles and doing more for killing his flagging cock than thoughts of Stan with someone else. The shock of it is sobering, and he feels marginally less drunk; he's still a little wobbly, though some of that can be attributed to how worked up he is. 

He flips up the collar of his coat, tightens it around his body. Walking with his head down against the wind, he trudges through the dark streets towards the marina, thoughts filling his head of climbing into his warm bed and jerking off to fantasies of his brother.  

He's surprised when a hand grabs his shoulder, but he's quick to react, elbowing the person attached to the hand in the stomach and eliciting a guttural "oof." His attacker recovers quickly and uses his bulk to shoulder check Ford up against the bricks of a shopfront. His back hits the wall and his attacker is on him, his considerable strength holding Ford in place with a forearm across his chest. Only then does Ford realize it's Stan. 

"Sweet Moses, it's just me, Sixer," he says, trying to catch his breath. He must've jogged to catch up to Ford. "You didn't hear me calling you?"

"I was -" Thinking about you, he doesn't say. 

"Off in your own world, I know." He raps lightly on Ford's forehead with his knuckles. "You gonna let me in?" 

Stan lets the arm pressed against Ford's chest fall, but he doesn't remove the hand on Ford's face. His knuckles rest against Ford's brow and he slides his curled fingers over Ford's simultaneously chilled and heated skin, thumb brushing against one eyebrow, opposite the direction of his hair growth. He straightens his fingers when his thumb finds the center of Ford's brow and he retraces his movement, smoothing the bristled hair back down before dropping that hand to Ford's shoulder. 

"Tell me, Sixer."

Ford has trouble speaking, with Stan this close to him, touching him so sweetly, so softly. It's too much and not enough, just like everything about Stan. 

"There's nothing to tell. It's nothing," Ford finally manages, lying to Stan and himself again. "I'm just exhausted." 

It's dark, but there's enough light coming from the moon, the stars, the streetlight illuminating Stan in a hazy back glow. Ford can see how Stan's face changes, goes from open and eager to frustrated and angry. 

"Fuck you," he says. "I'll tell you who's tired, goddamn it. Me!" 

He roughly grabs Ford by the neck of his sweater and pulls him into an even darker alcove, where the light seems to curve away and the dark surrounds them. He pushes Ford up against the wall again. 

Ford is relying on his other senses to orient him because the dark is painting them in shadows to thick to see through; Stan's hands wrapped around his upper arms, the heat of his body pressed against him, holding him in place, his whiskey sour breath puffing humidly against Ford's face are the only things anchoring Ford. 

"W-what the hell is wrong with you, Stanley?" Ford stutters out, painfully aware of his desire rearing its ugly head again, cock rising to press against his zipper. 

"You're such an - an asshole." Stan says again, echoing his parting words in the pub. "I don't know why I fucking put up with you," he says, softer, quieter, like he knows exactly why he puts up with Ford. 

Stan leans in closer, just inches from Ford's face. Ford's breath freezes in his lungs, his cock throbs with a rush of heat. 

"You think I don't know?" Stan asks, bringing a hand up to cup Ford's jaw. "You think I haven't known my whole goddamned life?" He finds Ford's slack mouth and slides his thumb gently across his bottom lip, dragging it down, rubbing against the slick inside of Ford's lip and pressing in further to rest against his teeth. 

Ford can't help the needful sound that escapes him, the groan starts in his chest and claws its way unbidden up his throat to fill the air between them with the evidence of his desire. 

Stan's thumb delves deeper, pressing down on Ford's tongue, stroking it. He closes his lips around Stan's thumb and sucks. 

Stan curses unintelligibly, no words sufficient to convey what he wants. Ford wishes he could see him, wishes he could see what he looks like as he lets Ford suck and swirl his tongue around his thumb. Slipping his thumb from Ford's mouth after a moment more, he groans as he scraps it over Ford’s teeth, easing it slowly out inch by inch to drag out the pleasure of the sensation. 

He nudges Ford's legs open with his knee and slots his thigh up against Ford's aching cock. 

"Fuck," he says, hissing the word from between clenched teeth. 

Ford can't stand it any longer. He surges forward, lips finding Stan's, opening to him. Stan groans into his mouth and licks into it, tongue sliding against the slick inside of his lips, his cheek, tracing the shape of his teeth, finding the small chip in his right front tooth, a memento from childhood. 

It's overwhelming to have Stan in this way after so many years of wanting. His heart is pounding in his chest, full and heavy. Yet, he feels light, so light that he needs Stan's hands on him, needs Stan to fill him up to keep him grounded. 

Stan's hands are on his hips just like he needs, squeezing his sides. He sucks Ford's bottom lip, bites it softly, then pulls back to catch his breath. He rasps his stubbly cheek against Ford's, rubbing against him, knocks their glasses together with a crack, drops his forehead to rest heavy on Ford's shoulder. 

He says to the fabric of Ford's coat, "You think I didn't - " He pauses, starts his sentence over.  "It's - " Ford can hear him swallowing hard, words too thick in his throat. Ford doesn't think he can get them out, thinks Stan will turn and walk away from him instead, but he is as surprising as he's always been. 

"It's you, Stanford," he finally says. "Goddamn it, it's always been you." 

He's answering Ford's question of what the hell is wrong with him, and Ford almost laughs for the sheer joy of knowing they have that in common. Stanley's what the hell is wrong with him too. He has always been. The years of repression and denial has ground Ford down into dust, until he's become this needful thing clutching at Stan with desperate, trembling hands - Stan’s thumb, his tongue, pressing a  _shem_ into Ford’s waiting mouth, inducingthe ecstasy filling Ford’s body.

"Please," Ford whines, arching his hips and pressing his cock firmly against Stan's thigh between his legs. 

"Fuck, Sixer." He gasps, a sharp shallow intake of breath followed by a shudder. "You don't have to beg. I'll - ah - give you anything you want." 

Ford's knees go weak at that and he clutches tighter at Stan's coat, sucks at his jaw right below his earlobe. Stan fumbles with Ford's belt and pants in the dark, cursing when his shaky hands don't cooperate. Finally, he gets Ford's pants down just enough to get his hand wrapped around the length of Ford for the first time. 

He's cognizant of the cold despite their little pocket of heat, and careful about exposing too much skin with the way his hand immediately encloses Ford in its slightly sweaty grasp. They've practically forgotten that they are in public with the way the dark hides them, conceals them, the only sounds of life their harsh, quick breaths. 

Ford moans against Stan's neck as he strokes him. He's eager and it feels good, but it's obvious from the stilted, awkward movement of his hand that he's either out of practice or has never gotten off another man. Then, he twists his hand just the right way and Ford's vision goes white on the edges. 

He must've made a sound because Stan says, "Like that? Sweet - fuck, that's it." 

He's got the hang of it now, stroking Ford's cock with his calloused hand, swiping pre-come from the head with his fingers, pressing his thumb against Ford's wet slit and squeezing him before sliding his palm down Ford's length again. 

He's moaning nonsense and encouragement in Ford's ear, biting his earlobe and sending a sweet spike of pain and pleasure through Ford's body. Ford arches up, thrusting into Stan's hand.

"Fuck, you really like that." He says, tongue tracing his earlobe, sucking the flesh into his mouth, biting down again.

Ford's beyond words; he just moans and fucks into Stan's hand.

"You gonna come for me? Huh? Come on," he says, voice low and hot in his ear. "Come for me. Come for me, Sixer." He repeats this like a mantra and it his words settle hot in Ford's chest, in his veins, in his bones, filtering through his body and down to his belly, down to his cock which surges in Stan's hand. 

"Come on, Ford. Fuck, I know you need it. You needed it back in the pub, I could tell. I know you. You need more, don't you? When I get you back to the boat, I'm going you give you what you need, Sixer. I'm gonna get these - these fucking clothes off you, get my hands on you, get your - get," he pauses, panting against Ford's ear. Ford's not sure if he's so overcome with emotion that he can't speak anymore or if he doesn't know what else he wants to do to Ford. "Come for me," he says again, instead. 

Ford imagines Stan fucking him open, fat cock pressing into his ass, stretching him wide. It’s too much and he comes all over Stan's hand, probably on his sweater too, though he can't see. His head falls back against the bricks as Stan milks him through his orgasm, squeezing him from base to tip until Ford shivers and groans with over-sensitivity. 

Stan says, "That's it, yeah. That's good," his mouth moving against Ford's skin with each syllable. 

They stay like that for a few moments, just exhaling and inhaling tandem, but eventually Stan pulls away just enough to tuck Ford's softening cock back in his pants, zipping him and buttoning and buckling him back up. 

Ford's heart clenches. He’d only blindly hoped for violent absolution from his desires for his brother, and instead Stan’s hands on him feel like sweet benediction. He’s seeing to the very center of Stan again, both of them dropping their masks and meeting as equals, both needful and desperate for each other.  

Ford leans forward, trying to find Stan's mouth in the dark.

Their noses collide and they both groan in pain before shifting and pressing their lips together in a heated, open mouthed kiss. Ford's hands have been clutching at Stan's coat, at his waist and now he brings one lower to palm Stan's cock.

"Let's just -" and Ford stops him because he knows Stan is going to say they should go back to the boat and there's no way he's stopping yet. 

He slips his thumbs in Stan's belt loops and drops unceremoniously to his knees. He's glad it's dark so Stan can't see the way he grimaces at the pain and the shock of concrete, a chill already sinking through the legs of his pants. He ignores his discomfort in favor of nuzzling Stan's warm groin, rubbing his cheek against his cock confined in his pants, opening his mouth and sucking wetly at the fabric. 

"Goddamn it, you can't tease me like this, Sixer. I'm ready to blow," he says. Ford thinks he can tease him, he will tease him, but later, when there's more time and he can see Stan's face and what it does to him to have Ford wringing every ounce of pleasure from his body. 

Now he's the one fumbling with Stan's belt and pants. Stan can likely only see a glint of light on his hair, which he then covers with a hand, fingers threading through to his scalp. 

He sucks the silky head of Stan's cock in his mouth and his hand clenches harder in Ford's hair. This is a bad angle for sucking his cock down deep, as much as Ford wants to feel it at the back of his throat. His forehead rests against Stan's soft belly, one hand fisted in his sweater, as he jerks Stan off into his mouth, tonguing the head and underside of the crown until Stan groans and spills into Ford's mouth. He swallows and swallows, bitter alkaline taste of his semen coating Ford's tongue. When the last weak spurts subside, Ford just holds Stan's cock in mouth, relishing the feel of it softening on his tongue while Stan pets his hair.

A sound of laughter comes from down the street. Stan curses under his breath and yanks at Ford's hair, urging him off and up. He climbs to his feet semi-reluctantly as Stan rights himself. Stan pulls Ford close to him, arms wrapped around Ford's body from behind, and they press as far back into the shadows as they can manage as two people pass by, drunkenly laughing about something. Their voices drift off into the night and it’s quiet again. 

Stan kisses behind his ear and whispers, "You've hardly said two words this whole time, Sixer. If I knew all I had to do to get you to shut up was get my tongue down your throat, I would've bit the bullet and kissed you years ago."

Ford stifles a hysterical laugh at the idea that they could've been doing this for so much longer. He presses his knuckles hard against his lips. It doesn’t do to dwell on thoughts of what could have been, so he pushes them from his mind.

"You caught me off guard," he admits once he’s able to compose himself. 

"Surprised speechless, got it. So, I have to keep surprising you?" He rests his chin on Ford's shoulder and squeezes him tighter once more before releasing him.

"I'd like to see you try," Ford says, knowing he will and knowing he'll succeed. 

Stan just laughs. The dark still blankets them but Ford can clearly see Stan in his mind's eye, all lit up with the thrill of the challenge, with the promise what's to come.  

**Author's Note:**

> Stole the title from The Great Lake Swimmers' [Unison Falling Into Harmony](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vIcuo2XV5II).


End file.
